


Intolerable Sex Kink

by mycapeisplaid



Series: Corpus Hominis Extras [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycapeisplaid/pseuds/mycapeisplaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You never know what you're getting into with Sherlock.  John's momentary doubts about the future of his sex life are allayed.  Set the morning after the pair get back from their weekend at Willow Cross.</p><p>For when mundane is good. No offense intended to anyone's kinks or preferences! It's all in good fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Intolerable Sex Kink

John was happy. So simple, really. They’d returned to London, without fanfare, just the two of them and familiar routes and the comfortable feeling of returning home. And if their hands brushed _just so_ as they walked, or if they sat just a bit closer than usual on the train, or if they did have to look at one another with slightly love-struck eyes just to make sure the other was still there, that yes, indeed, this weekend had really happened, well, that was just the way it was, and it was, above all, simple. And so, John was enormously happy. 

He was fairly sure he woke up with a smile on his face, warm and comfortable, in Sherlock’s bed. John blinked a few times, rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand, uncurled himself and rolled over.

Next to him, Sherlock Holmes was flat on his back, fingers steepled under his nose, eyes closed.

“Morning,” John mumbled. He settled himself back down, adjusting a pillow under his head so he could reach over and play with Sherlock’s hair. Perhaps this was an overly affectionate gesture, but the side of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up under his fingers at the touch, so John let his hand remain. His lover’s eyes remained closed, but had stopped moving behind the lids.

“Been awake long?”

“Mmm. Three hours.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

“Mmm.”

John tapped a bit on Sherlock’s head. “Re-decorating the mind palace?”

“Memorising. This entire weekend.”

“Oh God.” John gave Sherlock’s wild hair one last ruffle before sitting up, rolling his shoulders and cataloguing his sore parts. “Be right back.”

He grabbed his pants from where they had been discarded the night before, shrugged them on, and shuffled to the bathroom. He heard Sherlock yell, “Bring tea!” over the flush of the toilet. 

“You should be bringing me tea this morning,” John said as he brought two steaming mugs back into the bedroom, “to make up for the state of my arse.” His arse was actually fine; a little tender, maybe, but the whole experience of losing his anal virginity the night before had been far more enjoyable than he’d expected, and he was perfectly fine repeating it again - and again - just maybe not more than once in a twenty-four hour period.

Sherlock’s eyes remained closed, so John deposited the proffered mug on the nightstand and crawled back into bed. 

“I _was_ being gentle. It was you, I recall, who all but demanded I do it with a bit more enthusiasm. So if your arse is in a ‘state,’ it is not my fault.” 

John laughed and blew steam from the rim of his mug. “Yeah, well, I can’t be held responsible for what I say when you talk like that.” Sherlock smiled behind his fingers. “Where are you, anyway? In the memorising, I mean?”

Sherlock was quiet for another moment, as if he were pressing some mental ‘save’ button, before inhaling deeply, opening his eyes, and reaching for his tea. “Just after I masturbated in the shower.”

John burned his tongue. No, this was never, ever going to get old. “You’re memorising your wank?”

Shrugging, Sherlock took a sip and put his mug back on the nightstand. “It was an extremely memorable wank. Utterly _delightful_. Worth remembering.” 

“I didn’t even think you did that.” John’s face heated, as did his groin - he was going to have to learn to control his arousal because this was just damn embarrassing.

“Of course I do,” Sherlock scoffed. “Just not very frequently. Tedious. But sometimes necessary. So, then you told me about the needles, and I said we were going to ruin that hideously appointed bed and you had a small mental breakdown in the doorway.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

“OK, fine. Nothing important, all right? This is just kind of...well, it’s something I’ve wanted for such a long time and it just felt overwhelming there for a bit. It’s just, it’s good, you know? Good things don’t happen to me. Nothing ever happened to me. Until you. God, that sounds so soppy.”

“What were you afraid of?”

“All the things you were, you daft git. Still am, a bit. Like it’s too easy. Like there’s still something I don’t know, something absolutely ruinous, and this whole thing will explode on me and...Jesus.” He pushed at Sherlock a bit then, laughing. “It’s too early for deep shit.”

“I started thinking ‘deep shit’ three hours ago, if it makes you feel any better, and contrary to what you may believe, I, too, still have doubts and fears.” He frowned. “Fairly large ones, at that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock smoothed his expression, the line disappearing from between his brows. “Yes. But not now.”

“You know, when you said that, about the bed, and we were in the doorway? I was thinking about sex. With you. There. Add that to your memories.”

“What about it?”

“Well, that maybe...maybe I wouldn’t like it. I mean, I’ve never had…”

“...anal penetrative sex with a man…”

John spluttered a bit. “Are you going to keep doing that?”

“As long as it turns you that lovely shade of pink, yes.”

“Stop interrupting. I thought perhaps I wouldn’t like it.”

Sherlock looked immediately concerned. “You did, though. Right? We don’t have to do that, if you don’t want to.”

John gave him a look. “I know, and of course I liked it. Obviously. Shit, I bet Mrs. Hudson heard me. But I wasn’t sure I would. Then. Maybe you wouldn’t like it. Or that I’d fuck up a blow job or that you’d not find me attractive or that I’d say too many romantic things or make stupid noises or that this was some elaborate experiment you’d set up or that you’d be really into kinky sex…”

Sherlock shifted from his back to his side, propping his head up with his hand. “You thought I’d be into kinky sex.”

John sighed, fondly exasperated. “I don’t know! I didn’t know. Are you? What if we were completely sexually incompatible? What if you wanted something I couldn’t give you? Sorry, it’s stupid.”

“I suppose those are all legitimate concerns one would want to know about a potential lover.”

“See?”

“Especially in your case, as I am a man and you have no prior experiences with male sexual partners.”

“Exactly.” 

Sherlock laughed. 

“Hey! That’s nothing to laugh about!”

“And here I was, ready to wax my genitals.”

“ _What?_

Sherlock continued to laugh. John could feel his lover’s persistent erection hit him in the thigh. “I spent the better portion of the week locked in my head trying to figure out a way to make myself more sexually appealing to you. If I had not had such an unfortunate experience with the sugar, I would have a perfectly bald chest, belly, and bum.”

John’s eyes widened before he threw back his head and laughed too, both of them dissolving in a fit of giggles. He really would have been concerned if he had walked in on Sherlock divesting himself of his anogenital hair. 

“Don’t do that,” John said once he’d recovered. “Please, don’t do that. I’ve already told you about the hair. The hair is fine. I love the hair. The hair is _fucking sexy_.” He thought about the fine dusting of it over Sherlock’s thighs, the dark nest between his legs, how he had run his fingers over it, through it. 

“You really thought I wouldn’t enjoy myself?” asked Sherlock, nuzzling a bit at John’s neck. “That I would find you unattractive?”

“I’m over forty, and, according to you, will be totally grey soon. I have bags under my eyes, my lips are always chapped, and, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m bloody short.”

“John?”

“Mmm?”

“Before I met you I hadn’t hadn’t had an erection years.”

“Seriously?”

“The first week I knew you I had four. I re-discovered masturbation within the month. I have fantasies about you that I’m dying to act out. I am _enormously_ attracted to you.”

A lump of emotion formed in John’s throat. He smiled softly and moved in for a kiss, which grew from sweet to heated in a manner of minutes. “Haven’t brushed my teeth,” he murmured when they broke apart for air. 

“Don’t care,” Sherlock said back, nipping in for another kiss that would have continued had Sherlock’s mobile not buzzed from where it sat next to his rapidly cooling tea. 

“Go on,” said John, sitting up again and watching Sherlock, still gloriously nude, sit up and check his phone. John sipped his tea and appreciated the long expanse of his lover’s back. Everything about Sherlock was slim and long. His feet, his legs, his neck, his forearms, his... well. That too.

“Anything important?”

“No,” replied Sherlock, depositing his phone again on the nightstand. “The trial of Ms. Gleason and Leybourne Junior will be tedious, I’m afraid. They’re denying everything. We’ll have to appear in court.”

“I’ll have to appear in court, you mean. You’d be held in contempt before the cross-examination starts.”

“At least I can appreciate you in a suit. You look good in a suit. Well, the one I purchased for you, anyway. Some of your casualwear is frankly alarming. One day, I think I think I would like to see you in a dinner jacket.” He closed his eyes a moment, and when he opened them back up, they shone with mischievous glee. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

“Oh God. You have a suit fetish.” 

“I do hope that’s not included in your definition of ‘kinky sex.”

“No! No, that’s fine. _You_ look good in a suit, is all. I...I just look like John in a suit. You look like you just stepped off a GQ fashion shoot.”

“Perhaps I should consider another line of work.”

“You’d probably make more money.”

“Dreadfully dull. Posing for photographs. Spare me.”

“You’d love it. I can picture it now - you looking all posh, smouldering at the camera as they style your hair and go after you with a makeup brush. You wouldn’t even have to try.”

“Boring.”

“So why do you wear the suits?”

Sherlock flopped down in the bed again, pulling up the duvet and wrapping his arm around John’s waist. “Because I look good in them.”

“Yes, yes you do. Vain bastard. You’d look good in anything you wore. Jesus. I’d better not say that. Next thing I know you’ll be decked out in heels and knickers, or even worse, _I’ll_ be decked out in heels and knickers, and you’ll chalk it up to science and soon you’ll be taking videos of me dressed in latex with a ball gag stuffed in my mouth and trussed up like a Christmas turkey.”

Sherlock laughed at that, a deep chuckle. “Noooo.” He drew out the word into nearly three syllables.

“It’s not like you’re predictable. How am I to know what’s going on up there? You probably have a whole wing devoted to sex acts in that brilliant mind palace of yours.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock acceded. “Sex and crime are frequently related. I have studied, intensely. Pornography is so dreadfully boring and sex crimes are frankly disturbing. What’s in my mind is not pleasant or personal. We must rectify that.”

“Will I get my own room?”

“I shall treasure every sexual encounter we ever have.”

The thought bloomed in John’s chest, making him smile and his eyes prick with tears. 

“So, my love,” said Sherlock melodramatically, recapturing the lighthearted mood from the moment before, “what types of sexual acts are forbidden from our bed?” 

Sweet Lord. John had liberated Sherlock’s libido from years of sublimation and repression and was quite sure he was going to pay for it. He wondered if the detective would be able to hide it away again during cases, or if midnight stakeouts were going to be much more enjoyable. 

“I don’t know. I’m not saying I’m not creative in bed, because I am,” he said pointedly. He was a good lover, and he knew it. “Creativity is fine. Creativity is good. I just don’t like surprises.”

“No experiments?”

“Experimentation is fine, if done in the right way. Let me be very clear on this, Sherlock. If you start publishing data on what my diet does to the chemical composition of my semen, we’re done.” 

Sherlock kissed his shoulder. “Understood. What about private data?” 

“Christ, I knew you’d want to know. Fine. If you want to stick it under a microscope, go ahead. I just don’t want to know about it. No spreadsheets.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“No humiliation. I don’t get off on it, and I’m not going to do it to you.” Sherlock hummed a bit in approval. “Nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with any bodily excretions outside of spit and spunk. And that includes blood.”

“Crass, John,” said Sherlock, clucking his tongue.

“And no black latex. Ever. Got it?”

“Yes.” 

John relaxed a bit, let Sherlock’s fingers ghost through the hair below his navel. 

“And,” he remembered, “no fucking incest shit. Had this girl once that called me daddy. I’ve seen too much...just no.”

“You’ve quite a list.” 

John sat up, gathering steam. “You know what? I do. And you know what else, Sherlock? No fucking dog collars, and don’t tie me up. I don’t like being tied up. I think.”

“You think.”

“Yeah.” His eyebrows came together. “You?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Possibly.”

Well, that was surely interesting. It might not be so bad, after all. John suddenly had a mental image of Sherlock’s hands tied above his head with one of John’s best work ties, and he added it to his rapidly growing fantasies-that-must-happen. 

“Okay, so that’s negotiable. Just nothing I can’t get out of, okay? It would be just like you to handcuff me to something and then go flying off on a case and forget me.”

Sherlock did his best to look put out. “I wouldn’t.”

“You would. I’ve seen you leave chemistry experiments that should not be left. Small fires in the kitchen. You know. ‘Unimportant’ things.” 

“Anything else I should avoid?”

“Nope. I think that’s it. I’m good.”

“Toys?”

John gave his new lover an incredulous look. “Toys?”

“Sex aids. Vibrators, dildos, butt...”

“Yeah, yes, thanks, got that. Oh God, you have sex toys?”

Sherlock looked perfectly innocent as John’s mind, again, dissolved into a tangle of incoherence. “So you have sex toys. _Why_ do you have sex toys? Wait, I thought you said you know, um, didn’t have any desire to, you know, until I came along.”

“I didn’t say _when_ I purchased them,” Sherlock smirked deviously.

“Good God.”

“Would you like to see them?”

“Now?”

Sherlock shrugged.

John giggled. Ridiculous. This whole thing was just ridiculous. Sherlock chuckled along side him and nuzzled at his neck. “God. I just - you’re mad. Sherlock Holmes: reluctant masturbator and owner of sex toys. You’re a study of contradictions.”

“You’re mistaken, John. That’s you. You never fail to surprise me. But you didn’t answer the question.”

“I don’t know. Really, I don’t. Again, I don’t mind creativity.”

“Mmm. Videotaping?”

“No, that’s right out.”

“Phone sex? Skype?”

“I would have to be seriously desperate.” 

Suddenly, John felt very old and boring and completely unworthy of Sherlock Holmes, gorgeous naked sex god. He huffed a sad-sounding sigh. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. It looks as if you’ll be stuck with Grandpa John and his plain old vanilla sex preferences for the time being.”

“I’m going to kiss you now,” said Sherlock, and he did, quite thoroughly, until John was a bit breathless and, once again, hard as a rock. “You know,” he said, pulling away from John’s mouth, “you have completely underestimated vanilla.”

“How so?” 

“It’s an incredibly complex flavour. And just to create the flavour is a time-intensive process. There are three subspecies of the orchid, one grown in Madagascar, one in the West Indies, and the original Central and South American cultivars. Most of them are hand-pollinated, and was originally very difficult to grow anywhere other than its native Mexico because of its unique symbiotic relationship with the stingless species of bee, _melipona_. Vanilla extract is prized for its complex bouquet, but more importantly, its ability to enhance the flavours of other tastes, like chocolate, caramel, or coffee. Its chemical composition is complex and incredibly intricate and the plant itself can only survive under just the right conditions. The pods must be hand-picked at precisely the right time and then cured. Ethyl vanillin, John, is _extraordinary_.”

During this monologue, Sherlock had moved his palm to John’s chest, where it settled over his scar. 

“So,” he continued in that deadly baritone of his, “if your sexual repertoire is limited to spectacular fellatio and penetrative sex that gave me cramp in my feet and rendered me incapable of composing complete sentences, I think the future of our sex life is more than acceptable.” He scrunched his eyebrows together. “And, at one point in time, John Watson, I do believe your tongue was in my arse. Is that ‘vanilla’?” Sherlock moved his hips against John’s side, erection already hot and leaking. He leaned in further, lips on the shell of John’s ear where he whispered, “I think you should know that I _love_ vanilla. Love to smell it, taste it…” - a lick to John’s ear - “consume it.”

John shuddered, a full-body shiver. “Jesus, Sherlock.”

Sherlock laughed then and flopped back onto his back, looking rather smug. John could see the outline of his erection under the sheet. 

“Faux fur,” he said after John had curled up next to him. 

John scrunched his eyebrows together. “Pardon?”

“Synthetic fur. I hate it.” He pursed his lips in disgust and frowned, then shuddered, a full-body affair. “Ugh. Vile texture. Do _not_ put that on my skin.”

“Okaaaay. I’ll keep the offensive fuzzy pink handcuffs in my sock drawer. Anything else?”

Sherlock gave a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t know. I find that everything is different with you. And I’ve deleted most of my prior experience.”

John smiled in spite of himself. “So, we just learn as we go along?”

Sherlock stretched, yawned, and then rolled over on top of his lover and rolled his hips. “Yes. For instance, I think I quite like morning sex,” he said, mouthing at that spot under John’s ear that the doctor particularly liked. 

“Mmm,” John agreed, shifting his own hips up. “So, if you do something I don’t like, I’ll tell you, and vice versa.” 

Sherlock’s agreement was another thrust of his hips.

“And I’m not against trying new things. You know, to spice things up once and a while.”

This time the thrusting was accompanied by sharp teeth at his throat. Bloody hell.

“Ow!”

“Not good?”

John catalogued the sensation, felt the shiver run through his body as Sherlock licked at the spot. “I’m not...no, actually, that’s, that’s...not above the collarbone, okay, I’ve got to go to work tomorrow and…and…ow!”

Sherlock was burying himself under the duvet, working himself slowly down John’s body, that wicked mouth alternating between sharp little bites and tender tongued kisses. 

“You know,” came that deadly baritone from somewhere under the covers, “I had an aunt once who made spectacular vanilla panna cotta.”

“Really?” John sucked in a sharp breath as Sherlock gave another little nip to the tender spot between hip and groin. 

“It was delicious. Complex flavour, with just subtle added spice, an exotic aftertaste.” He pulled back the duvet so John could see what he was doing. John struggled to keep his eyes open as Sherlock prepared to take him in mouth. “John,” he rumbled, eyes looking up under dark lashes, “how do you like a hint of _cinnamon_?” Then there was wet heat, suction, a hint of teeth and the bite of fingernails on his hips...

John supposed his helpless groan would have to do for a yes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is porn. Vanilla porn. With a hearty helping of testicle appreciation and confessions of love.
> 
> You have to have read Corpus Hominis for this to make any sense. Sorry, it's a bit of a long read.

Part Deux

Drowning might not be the right word for it. He had plenty of oxygen, and his lungs were working just fine - heaving breaths in, expelling waste gases out. Drowning, thought John, also might have negative implications. Surrendering, then. It felt like that, being completely submerged in something so intense he didn’t bother to fight it, didn’t even want to fight it. So he embraced it, then. Let himself be a vessel for overwhelming love and intense pleasure.

It was raining, and the smoky weak light of morning filtered through the curtains, interrupted only by the soft, yellow glow from the lamp. In the years since it was built, 221B had witnessed the lives of all sorts of human beings with all sorts of interesting lives, had been the home to families, friends, and lovers, had survived fires and tasteless decor, and had housed the newborn and the dying. John wondered, as he closed his eyes to Sherlock’s bedroom, if the four walls that held them now had ever seen anything as beautiful (and slightly scandalous) as what was happening in it now.

John had many memorable blowjobs in his life - some in some insane crazy locations by a few of his more adventurous girlfriends - but nothing compared to this. And it had everything, _everything_ to do with the fact that Sherlock was a man. 

First of all, his mouth was huge, compared to most women’s. His lips, and, oh God, his tongue. That, yes, made the difference, simply the fact that his mouth was larger and stronger than that of a woman’s. But also his teeth, which were doing something that obviously took practice, were in on the deal, yet John felt no concern for the safety of one of his most sensitive body parts. And the suction. Sweet baby Jesus, he was being sucked, literally sucked, as if Sherlock were really trying to vacuum the come right out of him. Somewhere in the back of his mind John made a note to check his lover’s soft palate for petechiae. 

Second, part of his mind was still saying _sex with fellow man: forbidden, naughty, deviant,_ and John, like his lover, took a certain kind of delight in breaking the rules. 

Sherlock seemed so intent on what he was doing that John just lay there, panting, and let it happen. 

And then, Sherlock groaned, the sound sonorous and sinful, and dug his fingers deeper into John’s hips. That, too, was different. No woman had a voice that deep or hands that strong -- or that large. He’d always found Sherlock’s hands beautiful. Seeing those hands earlier wrap around both of their cocks, pressing them together to fuck within the circle of his fingers - well, that was extraordinary. Feeling those hands on his body now, holding him in place, was somehow comforting. He felt owned, protected: two feelings he rarely experienced. John had never felt owned by Sherlock, regardless of how much he followed the detective’s lead, and John himself did most of the protection -- it was Sherlock who ran headlong into danger. Now, however, with Sherlock’s hands on his hips and Sherlock’s mouth on his dick, John felt adored, loved, safe, treasured, possessed. 

And he could hardly believe just how much Sherlock currently seemed to be enjoying himself; Sherlock, who had for so long turned his nose up at even the mention of physical intimacy, was clearly getting off on going down. 

When they first met, John spent a not inconsiderable amount of time trying to work out whether his new flatmate had any kind of sexuality whatsoever. Perhaps the impeccably groomed detective deemed acts of kissing and fellatio...or the inevitable messiness of anal play...as unhygienic or too intimate.

That was, until, he realised very early on that Sherlock had no problem eating from unwashed plates and cups, digging around in skips, leaping into the Thames without regard for his made-to-measure suits, or -- this was truly surprising -- refusing to wash out of sheer petulance. Sherlock did not fear blood, guts, body fluids, microbes, or putrefaction. Nor, (to John’s great relief) did Sherlock have any objections to putting his lips and tongue on any part of John’s body. Thank God for that. 

It was such a vulnerable position, really, thought John as Sherlock licked at him, to be on your back, legs splayed apart, your bits and bobs in someone else’s mouth. And Sherlock’s no less; his mouth was the most dangerous part about him. Capable of so much pain in the form of cutting insults or too-honest and ill-timed deductions, it was also a brilliant mouth, one from which poured forth fascinating monologues and incredible facts and sarcastic rejoinders. One which kissed John with exceptional skill, one which tongued and sucked and bit in all the right ways. 

That mouth was now abandoning John’s cock in favour of his balls. Thought amended: _this_ was much more dangerous. 

John had always been physically small compared to his friends, and his stature, long before his army training taught him to size up every man the room: who was boasting, who was truly vicious, and whom he could neutralise if necessary. It was his self-confidence and his ability to hold his own that kept his hands steady in the face of physical danger. That, and his natural proclivity for reading people, is what rendered Mycroft Holmes’ ability to intimidate and most of Sherlock’s insults harmless. But like any man, John looked after his testicles. Oddity of biology, testes: the very place reproductive cells were produced, the most, biologically speaking, important cells in the male body, dangled outside in a thin, defenseless sac. There was a reason why soldiers removed their helmets and used them to cover their nuts - forget the brain; better death that than flack to the testicles. Men had rules about their balls: you didn’t hit below the belt in a fight; if you had a great mate that you wanted to pester, you could snap a towel in the general vicinity of his groin and hope you got him good; you could casually rearrange them if the need arose in the presence of other men; you could complain about how cold or hot they were. The size of a bloke’s cock might be impressive, but it was his balls that other men respected. John’s were of perfectly average size, but any one of his army mates would testify: John Watson may be short, but that fucker’s got _balls_. 

Other men may have complimented John’s balls in jest, but Sherlock was literally paying his respects. He was worrying the thin skin of the scrotum between his lips, gently sucking each teste into his mouth, tonguing in between them; now, his hands moving from John’s hips to manipulate and fondle. No devotee, however, ever made _those sounds_ during an act of reverence, and no woman had ever made this much noise while giving a blowjob. Sherlock was still making these obscene sounds, deep and masculine groans and grunts; if the flat were still bugged, someone was getting an earful that would have sounded like someone in extreme pain or enjoying the most delicious dessert on the planet, had it not been for the obscene slurping and John’s own noises of pleasure. He sincerely hoped Mrs. Hudson was not still in her bedroom (that awkward conversation was bound to happen sooner or later, and with the ruckus they were raising, John had his bets on sooner). 

“Oh,” John breathed, canting his hips up a bit as his lover took him as deep as he could. John had had four orgasms in the past forty-eight hours, and it seemed that another one was evident, although it was building slowly. He hadn’t felt this randy since his early twenties. Logic told him that they (well, at least _he_ ) couldn’t keep up this pace for long, but for now he was going to enjoy every second of this. “Fuck, that feels amazing.” 

Sherlock groaned (oh God), but then released the cock in his mouth and drew a shuddering breath. John struggled to lift his head and look up. Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed and his face was covered with his own saliva. He looked completely debauched, eyes dark and lips swollen. He grinned, wiped his face with his hand, and then hunkered back down, wrapping John’s legs around him as he made a pillow out of John’s lap.

For a moment, John wondered what had happened - he wasn’t just going to stop, was he? That would be truly sadistic. 

“Um, Sherlock…”

“Shh, John.”

“Is there something…”

“Shh.” Sherlock nuzzled at the skin between John’s leg and groin. John could feel Sherlock’s stubble, just sandpaper, rub against his leg, felt his breath coming fast and hot over his skin. “Stop talking. I’m watching your scrotum.”

John huffed a laugh. “Fabulous. It’s still there, I take it.”

“It’s _moving,_ ” he whispered. “It moves on its own. No discernible pattern. Just movement.”

“Well, yes, it does that.”

Sherlock blew on John’s testicles, which were now a bit cold, what with being wet and everything. John felt the thin skin contract further.

“Stop it, you twat.”

“It’s fascinating.” He cupped John’s testicles in his large hand. 

John took a deep breath through his nose and let it out through his mouth. His lover was nothing if unpredictable, and John loved that about him, but if Sherlock was going to lose interest in the current proceedings and take a shining to studying scrotums of all types for the next week - well, that simply wouldn’t do. Not after all that talk about vanilla and the fellatio and the thing with the fingernails…

“Come here.” John reached down and bodily hauled Sherlock up on top of him. 

Sherlock buried his head into John’s neck and gently bit at an earlobe. “Was going to come,” he rumbled.

“Yes, again, I know. Proud of yourself, are you? Jesus, I feel like a teenager.”

“No, I mean me. From you in my mouth. Didn’t know that was possible,” he said as John reached up to smooth the back of neck, the damp curls there. “Used to think about it,” he added. “You’d be sitting there, watching some horrible drivel on the telly, all relaxed, your legs open and feet together, and I could have just crawled over to you and put my head in your lap. Breathed you in. I love the way you smell, John. The way you taste. You _do things_ to me.”

The weight of Sherlock’s body was substantial, but John laid there and felt his lover’s heart hammering away against his own. These confessions were going to kill him.

“I also love your testicles,” Sherlock murmured. “They are very nice.”

John smiled and laughed. “Well, yes, ta for that. I think they like you, too.”

“You were close, too. I could tell. All drawn up tight like that.” 

“Please tell me you’ve read Masters and Johnson’s studies on the human sexual response cycle.” 

“Dull,” replied Sherlock, clearly still intrigued. “Outdated, anyway.”

“It’s been our biology forever. Nothing’s changed. Testicles behave as testicles should.”

“I prefer Watson and Holmes’ studies. Much more current. And interesting. Data collection is very satisfying. I want to put mine on yours.” Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, and then wiggled his hips a bit, frowned, and reached between them. When he slowly lay back down, John realized that indeed, their most masculine of anatomies were not only touching, but pretty much mashed together. It was an incredibly strange yet erotic and tenderly intimate gesture. Sherlock’s testicles felt hot against his own. John lay still, savouring the moment. This, he knew, was Sherlock’s way of saying he loved him, showing him just how much he meant. And so they lay there, chest to chest and balls to balls, breathing.

“Mine are very sensitive,” said Sherlock at length, lifting himself up a bit on his elbows and giving John a chance to breathe.

“Are they?”

“Hmm-mm. Even more so than the rest of me.”

“You know,” said John, after going in for a soft kiss that soon turned sloppy and heated, “you left something out of my sexual skill-set earlier.” 

“Did I?” Sherlock sounded amused. 

John reached across Sherlock’s back to grab at his bum. It was a stretch (Sherlock was too bloody tall for them to line up properly) but eventually he wiggled down under his lover enough to grasp that ample arse with two hands. “I’ve been told I’m exceptional at manual stimulation, I’ve been wanking for years, and I know _exactly_ how to find a prostate. I have very talented hands, and you have a gorgeous arse.” He squeezed, causing Sherlock to moan above him. “Budge up. Where’d you put that oil?”

Sherlock moved, flipped himself over, and lay flat on the bed, his penis lying flushed and heavy against his stomach. “Still in my shaving kit.”

John smirked and waggled his eyebrows before retrieving what was left of the massage oil. He took a seat between Sherlock’s spread legs and poured a generous amount into his palms. “How’d you know, anyway?” he asked, warming the oil between his hands. “This particular one. You knew, didn’t you? That this was the one I was looking at while you were doing God-knows-what at that salon?”

“The bottle was slightly warmer than the rest,” replied Sherlock, the corner of his mouth turning up with pride at his own cleverness. “You had obviously held it in your hand for a considerable amount of time, and the only reason you would have done that is if you’d got lost in your thoughts, and because it was massage oil, you were likely thinking of either physical therapy or a massage of a more intimate nature, so your thoughts strayed to sex and you momentarily lost track of time, as you usually do when you think about sex. I thought you might be able to appreciate it. You go through shower gel at an alarming rate and that lotion you sometimes use is that horrible antibacterial stuff you bring home from the clinic. Frankly, I can’t see how that would be at all comfortable on your genitals. Not emollient whatsoever.”

“Yeah, but how did you know it was me?” John asked, ignoring the fact that Sherlock likely knew all of his mastrubatory habits. “Maybe someone else was looking at it. You couldn’t have known that I was looking at all that crap.”

“No. But unlike you, I do have great respect for what grows from my scalp. And I enjoy chemistry. It was an entire wall of chemistry, John, and it was by far the most interesting thing in that place. I just happened to notice that a bottle was slightly out of place; I picked it up. The rest is deduction.” 

“It was a lucky guess.” John countered and prepared to get to work. He still couldn’t believe that he was allowed to touch Sherlock at all, let alone this part of him. “I think we should probably buy an entire case of it.”

“Mmm. Agreed. Although it’s not recommended to use oil-based lubricants with condoms or silicone-based sex aids...oh. Oh, that’s...nice.”

John kept his touch light as he spread the oil; Sherlock’s cock leapt in his hands. John marvelled at its weight and heat. Gorgeous. Simply gorgeous.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Shut up and enjoy this.”

It didn’t take John long to figure out what drove Sherlock crazy; the twist of the wrist here, on the upstroke, the pad of a thumb to the frenulum, gentle fingers on the scrotum. Whereas John had to learn women, develop the techniques to finesse a clitoris or flutter against a g-spot, touching Sherlock seemed like second nature, like an extension of himself. Very quickly, on their first night together (was it really only just this weekend, just two days ago they’d finally found their way?) John had learned that Sherlock wasn’t exaggerating about the sensitivity of his skin, and now, as John sat between those long, relaxed legs, he made sure his lover was well-oiled as he touched him.

John’s hands were not as large as Sherlock’s, but they, too, were finely-boned and capable of great precision. Within minutes Sherlock’s thighs were trembling. 

“So good,” Sherlock mumbled as he thrust his hips into John’s hands. “More.” John wasn’t exactly sure what “more” meant - that was one of the beautiful things about a new lover: learning each other, each other’s bodies, preferences, when to do what depending on the mood. His body was at war with itself - part of him wanted to get right down there and reciprocate Sherlock’s earlier blowjob; another part of him wanted to sink himself deep, sheath himself to the hilt and rut. Sherlock decided it for him.

“Your hands,” he said, “your beautiful hands. So perfect.” 

Hands it would remain, then, and John smiled down at his lover, who was beginning to lift his hips clean off the bed. Seeing Sherlock like this was so incredibly special - Sherlock, whose brain never seemed to stop, whose body was always so full of nervous energy, was now reined in, so beautifully human. Yet at the same time, John felt that he held something truly remarkable in his hands, something more than human, something divine and just for him. He had never loved anyone this way, or so much. He would spend the rest of his life showing Sherlock just how much he loved him, with his words, his lips, his tongue, his fingers. There would be so much time for exploring, for breaking out those toys (good God), for quick and dirty sex under the sweep of the Belstaff, a blowjob in an alleyway, groping in a cab. But now, John just wanted to Sherlock to understand, really, truly understand, just how treasured and loved he was. He’d always considered his hands tools of his trade; healer’s hands, those that fixed broken things. Sherlock Holmes was far from broken, but he could still benefit from a healing touch, one that would soothe his manic highs and deliver him from his depressive lows, touch that would help ground him on a human plane, one in which the physical manifestation of their love for each other could exist, boundless.

And so, with every press of his hands, every tug, every jerk, every twist and pull, John told Sherlock just how amazing he was. His slippery hands massaged his lover’s balls, kneaded at his perineum, pressed against his anus with a fingertip until it yielded, then, as lovingly as he could, John Watson took Sherlock Holmes apart with touch alone. 

Soon, it was Sherlock’s balls that were drawn up tight to his body (that didn’t stop John from touching them, feeling the thin skin tighten, observing the little line of tissue between them). It was quiet save for Sherlock’s sounds of pleasure - John was aware he was biting his own tongue, pressed between his lips in concentration, just to hear Sherlock, those whimpering moans and occasional grunts when John’s finger hit his prostate just right. 

John realized Sherlock was correct - it was possible to go off just by the act itself, the giving of pleasure; his own body felt the pull of orgasm, the familiar build deep in his pelvis - and tried to reach down to touch himself when Sherlock suddenly sat up, eyes dark, wide, and wild. He slapped both of his hands to John’s face, kissed him deeply, and then threw himself over on all fours, arse in the air. “Just put us together,” he commanded roughly.

John poured a generous amount of oil into his right hand and dumped what was rest over the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, just in case. 

“Don’t you need me to…”

“Now is fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock bent his head around to shoot John a look of exasperation and annoyance. “John, I am asking as politely as I possibly can in my current state of arousal to kindly put your fucking dick in my arse and get on with it.”

“Give me a second here,” John replied, mirth seeping into his voice. Sherlock was always impatient when overstimulated, and he only swore when seriously hurt or now, as John was finding out, aroused to the point of desperation. John usually ambivalent to power play in the bedroom, but just seeing Sherlock on hands-and-knees, arse in the air and all but demanding to be fucked - well, perhaps John could consider obliging a whim or two sometime in the future.

John took his cock in hand, gave himself a few strokes to oil it up, and then and positioned himself appropriately. He ran the head of his penis over Sherlock’s perineum a few times, just to enjoy the eroticism of it and momentarily tease his lover, until Sherlock shuddered and pushed back, effectively impaling himself. 

John’s eyes fluttered closed. It was the second time he’d done this, but last time Sherlock had been on his back and so John had focused on his lover’s face to keep himself grounded. Now, however, the view was, in John’s mind, significantly more pornographic: there, directly in front of him, was the obscene stretch of Sherlock’s anus around his cock, and it just might be the most bloody-fantastic-dirty-precious-wonderful-intimate-perfect-amazing thing John had ever witnessed, and if he opened his eyes right now he just might not make it past the first thrust. 

“Go slowly,” Sherlock said as he shifted his weight, supporting himself with one arm as the other reached down and under his body to cup their testicles together in one large hand. “Let me feel every inch of you.” 

It took every ounce of control for John not to come right then and there. Goddamn Sherlock and his voice. Go slowly. Right then. He forced himself to open his eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled back.

One stroke, two, three, four… _don’t come yet_...five, six, seven, oh God. _Oh God._

John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s torso to help keep him upright - he could feel him beginning to shake with the strain of being supported by one arm as Sherlock’s hand abandoned their testicles to jerk himself off in earnest. John couldn’t see it, but knowing what Sherlock was doing sent a shiver of pleasure directly to his balls. He wasn’t going to last.

But then, neither was Sherlock. John had stopped counting strokes, and his eyes had closed of their own accord. It was hard to concentrate on anything when Sherlock Holmes was in the throes of orgasm. He groaned, shook, pressed himself backward into John and panted, his voice deep and raw. “Please,” he said. “Please, John, I’m, I’m.... Please tell me, say it, please…tell...JOHN!”

Tell him? Tell him what? What was it he wanted to hear? John, holding on to Sherlock with every ounce of his strength, could think of nothing coherent to say, except for the words that were already there, ready to tumble out of his mouth. One final thrust, deep, and John was coming -- again -- as he clung to Sherlock’s trembling form. 

Semen burst from his body as words flew from his mouth: “I love you. I fucking love you. Oh God, Sherlock. Love. You. _Fuck_.”

It was then when Sherlock’s arm finally gave in and he fell both fell flat on the bed, John still on top of him, panting and sweating and shaking and coming and coming and coming.

John listened to his heart beating for a while as the room came back into focus, realising that perhaps his verbal declarations of love might have been the wrong thing to say -- confessions in the heat of the moment seemed the type of thing Sherlock would denounce as foolish sentiment. Yet he had asked for it, had he not? It was the truth, after all, John’s one truth, a compass point. He wouldn’t deny it, not anymore, never again. He had vowed that Sherlock would always know how much he was loved and treasured. Here, in the bedroom, away from the world and unburdened by cases or boredom, those simple words were the truth of his life. 

He pulled out as gently as he could and moved off Sherlock a bit, and lay there, face down and halfway draped over his lover, who was still trembling. He rubbed his face into Sherlock’s shoulder and just existed for a moment, before Sherlock extricated himself, rolled over, and pulled John to his chest.

“Always,” he murmured in John’s hair, voice wrecked with emotion. “Yes, that. For you. Always.”

“I know.”

“Don’t let me forget.” 

“I won’t.”

John relaxed into the embrace, let himself enjoy feeling small for once, wrapped up in Sherlock’s arms and legs. Sherlock’s skin was warm and slightly damp under his cheek where it pressed into his pectoral. Under skin and bone, Sherlock’s heart hammered away, the only part of him not to succumb to post-coital lethargy. John had wondered if sex hormones would work like jet fuel to Sherlock’s mighty brain, whether he would solve a case mid-orgasm or leap from the bed toward the promise of adventure, leaving poor John forgotten and unsatisfied. It seemed, at least for now, however, that physical and emotional components of sex temporarily overrode Sherlock’s fury of thoughts, and for once, the transport was allowed to indulge in the simple comfort of skin-on-skin.

“Don’t go to work,” Sherlock said at length, drawing the duvet up from where it had been kicked down to the end of the bed. “Just stay here. You can force me to eat breakfast and then we’ll have plain vanilla sex again. Then we’ll find a case, get into a bit of trouble, come home and do it again. In the sitting room.” 

John stifled a laugh and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s nipple. He felt warm and happy and a bit sleepy, but he had promised Sarah he’d cover her shift while she attended a conference. “It’s not a long shift.”

“I’ll be bored.”

“You’ll figure something out.”

“Your absence will interrupt our bonding.”

John wiggled out of Sherlock’s arms and stretched. “Think it took,” he said, smiling. 

“I’ll go through your wardrobe.”

By now, John was halfway out of bed, half-heartedly trying to rid himself of one clingy consulting detective. 

“Go ahead. I’m not the one with the sex toys.”

“John?”

Something in the tone made him turn around to see Sherlock sitting on the bed, looking a right mess. Any resolve John had managed to muster quickly dissolved. 

“That...you...this…” Sherlock made an all-encompassing hand gesture. “This is not boring. Not plain.” He furrowed his brow as he did when he wasn’t expressing something emotional clearly enough. “Not ordinary whatsoever.”

John took pity on him and climbed back into bed. He had five minutes to spare. Something was clearly eating at Sherlock. “Are you trying to tell me sex isn’t so mundane after all?”

“Not with you.”

“Pleased to hear it.”

Sherlock drew John to him again, and they lay together facing one another. They found each other’s hands; Sherlock’ kissed John’s knuckles. “I’m trying to tell you that I love you,” he said softly against them. 

It was the first time Sherlock had said it. John _knew_ Sherlock loved him, but he’d decided when Sherlock had initially asked about John’s feelings back at Willow Cross that it would be fine if Sherlock never wanted to express it aloud. He figured that if he did choose to, it would be followed by words of caution: _John, I love you but I have no desire for physical intimacy with you. John, I love you even though you have the brain of a lower reptile. John, I would love you if I could._ But now, here it was, the truth, with no caveats, no warnings, no stipulations. 

“I know,” John said, and kissed Sherlock in response, a soft and tender kiss that spoke the depths of his own affection. 

When the kiss ended, John was sure there were tears in those mercurial eyes. Amazing. For so long John thought his flatmate incapable of any empathy or altruism at all. Now he knew otherwise. Sherlock _could_ love, he _could_ care - he was just shit at casual relationships and extremely selective in his emotional ones. John knew now that he had been chosen to receive this secret, cloistered, and emotionally intense and rather vulnerable side of Sherlock, and it was the biggest gift, the biggest miracle he could have ever asked for. Precious. Priceless. And anything but predictable. 

“Well,” he announced, stroking Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb and feeling the need for levity before he turned into a pile of emotional mush incapable of doing anything but lounging in bed all day. “We are both in need of a shower.” He stood, took stock of the mess at his groin, and held out a hand. “Come with?”

Sherlock took a moment to observe his own body - which really was a mess of oil, come, and sweat. He shrugged. “Leave it.”

“And everyone at the clinic will know _exactly_ what I’ve been up to. We kind of reek.”

Sherlock scowled. “I like it. And I’m feeling rather possessive.”

“That’s nothing new. Come on, get up.”

The shower was lovely, and John washed Sherlock’s mop of curls with his homemade shampoo. Afterward, they took turns in the bathroom as they usually did, and by the time John came back downstairs from getting dressed for work, Sherlock was clean-shaven and reading the paper at the table. He’d even made tea. 

“You’re leaving after all?” There really was a hint of disappointment in Sherlock’s voice. 

“Yes,” John smiled as he shrugged on his jacket. “Don’t worry, Sherlock. Soon you’ll be back to calling me an idiot and wondering how I manage from day to day and you will find all sorts of creative and likely deceptive ways of getting me out of the house.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’m still going through your things.”

“Go for it. I’ll be back at five. Don’t blow anything up until then, all right?”

Sherlock smiled wryly and went back to his paper. 

London really was lovely in the spring, thought John, as he walked to work, smiling at nothing in particular. He looked like a honeymooner, and for all intents and purposes, he supposed he was. He doubted he and Sherlock would ever exchange rings, but they had each other’s hearts, and the knowledge that Sherlock loved him, wanted him, heart, mind, and body, was more than enough. Who knew? His marvelous and absolutely infuriating best friend turned out to be an attentive and sensitive lover. For the first time in his life, John felt _tall_ , towering over the rest of the city’s pedestrians making their ways to work. _Fuck me,_ he thought to himself, giddy. _What the hell have I gotten myself into?_.

He walked with his phone in his hand, waiting for it to buzz, and buzz it did when he was halfway to Camden Town. He stopped and checked his texts. 

**I thought you were being facetious. -SH**

**You’re in my sock drawer, yeah?**

**Hideous. Vile. I’m throwing them out. - SH**

**Give them to Mrs. Hudson.**

John could picture it now, Sherlock poking at the silly, fuzzy restraints (a gag gift, actually, that he’d kept just in case he might need such a thing) as most people would prod a dead animal. His phone buzzed again, this time with just a single word:

**INTOLERABLE.**

John chuckled all the way to the clinic.


End file.
